


False Idol

by kyrilu



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Manipulation, One-Sided Relationship, Religious Guilt, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 21:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8593837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: Three times Percival Graves did magic in front of Credence.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [Ngụy Tinh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8615365) by [thegirl_gcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirl_gcat/pseuds/thegirl_gcat)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Ложный идол](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11712537) by [DarkMoska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkMoska/pseuds/DarkMoska)



> I was at a loss what to write at first, but then I remembered that I have a religion kink greater than the fucking sun and this fic wrote itself.

When Mr. Graves heals the red slashes on his hand for the first time, Credence watches the broken skin knit back together with wonder in his eyes.

“This,” he says, “is magic.”

Mr. Graves inclines his head. “It is. And you’ll do it yourself soon. But you need to prove yourself first.”

Credence nods. He looks at his palm, and he catches himself thinking that he’d get himself punished again, get himself hurt, just to _feel_ it again. Mr. Graves cradling his hand and taking the pain away, cuts and bruises smoothing over like a ripple passing over a still pond.

 

* * *

 

The second time Mr. Graves shows magic in front of him, it’s by accident. Credence is waiting by a park bench at night, and he sees a flicker of light. It’s a soft hue of white blue, not the yellow of electricity.

Mr. Graves is looking for me, he thinks. He feels something tight in his chest and he almost can’t breathe.

“It looks like lightning,” Credence says. He whispers, “ _His lightning illuminates the world. The earth sees, and trembles.”_

He knows too many holy words, rambling verses and condemnations from the crisp pages of the bible. He knows the language in his mother’s pamphlets by heart--  _demon, monster, beast_ \--and he feels them every day like thorns.

Now, he looks at this small light. Like the earth before the Lord’s lightning, he trembles.

Mr. Graves laughs from the darkness. “Frightened of a little _Lumos_?”

“Lumos?”

“The wand-lighting charm,” Mr. Graves says, taking a seat beside Credence on the bench. “Related to the Latin prefix _lumen,_ which means light. Many spells have Latin roots.”

“ _Lumen_ \--like _lux_? _Fiat lux_ ,” Credence says.

“Yes. I knew you were a clever boy,” Mr. Graves says. His mouth is slightly curved, a smile, and Credence feels his heart twist again.

Let there be light, let there be light, Credence repeats in his head. It is his first almost-prayer to magic.

 

* * *

 

He murmurs, _Lumos, lumos, lumos_ , with his bedcovers pulled over his body and his hand held out in front of him. But there is still that ugliness pulling him apart, and he knows, at his core, that he is weak and useless and he can’t do something like this, not like Mr. Graves with his magic.

He should have known, but it still stings. He’s distracted throughout the morning and he fails to pass out enough leaflets.

His mother doesn’t use the belt on him. Instead, she casts him outside in the rain without anything to eat, and he’s left loitering at one of his meeting places with Mr. Graves, the rain soaking him and his stomach aching.

They aren’t supposed to meet today. But Credence has a foolish kind of hope anyway, and it makes him feel better. Being here. Like Mr. Graves left traces of himself behind, and he’s here comforting Credence, telling him he’s worthy of magic and he’s a _good boy_ \--

This is the moment when Credence realizes that he is more of a sinner than he had thought himself to be. He lets out a choking sound, knowing exactly what his mother would call him; he knows, now, that if Mr. Graves knew, he would turn his back on Credence. He would leave.

“Credence?"

Credence starts at the sound of Mr. Graves’ voice. “Sir?” he stutters out. “I--I know we aren’t supposed to meet today.”

“Did she hurt you again?” Mr. Graves asks. It’s a gentle question. His voice is gentle. And when he reaches out, his warm hand sparking against Credence’s rain dampened face like lightning, his touch is gentle, too.

Credence shakes his head. “No, my hand is fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--I’m sorry for wasting your time. It’s my fault.”

I’m sorry for being unnatural, for being weak, he doesn’t say.

I’m ruining this, he doesn’t say.

Mr. Graves holds out his wand, and Credence waits for pain or punishment to come. Instead, he is suffused with a sensation of heat: his clothes and hair drying and an invisible barrier erected above his head, shielding them both from the rain. Yet he is still shivering when Mr. Graves lowers his wand.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” Mr. Graves says. “Breathe, Credence.”

His hand shifts to cup Credence’s jaw, tracing the line of his chin. And it’s good; it’s so, so good, and it leaves Credence gasping from the tenderness of it. He breathes.

Credence tries to tamp down the urges that arise within him. He asks, “Can magic make a person like a god? Sometimes I think--when you do magic--”

It is the sweetest blasphemy he’s ever committed, because it makes Mr. Graves smile and his eyes darken with pleasure, perhaps, or maybe delight. Credence finds himself flushing, his trembling stalled.

“Always the desperate ones,” Mr. Graves says, softly. “Always the hungry ones.”

Mr. Graves withdraws his hand. Credence is left with an emptiness on his skin.

 

* * *

 

His anger always reveals itself. At the end of the day, there is nothing good enough about him for his mother or for Mr. Graves. There are only the sharp welts on his hand and the slightest tantalizing touches and praises, which he knows he shouldn’t _want_ so much.

Everything that hurts and aches bursts into an uncontrollable explosion.

Let there be light, let there be light, Credence thinks.

There is only darkness.


End file.
